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MOSCOW BY NIGHT Pamela was beautiful even when she was fl ustered, Basile realised. "For a moment I thought you’d changed your mind," he said with relief, fastening his seatbelt as Pamela settled in beside him. "My daughter had trouble getting the car started," she said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. With her blond bob surrounding her bright, smiling green eyes, pretty mouth emphasised by red lipstick, she didn't look like a woman in her mid- forties, but then she never did. The thick, green,wool two-piece seemed just right for a woman her age, being both elegant and practical. Realising he was staring at her, Basile swung his gaze to the in-flight magazine he had been reading. Ten minutes later the plane took off for Leningrad. A wave of pleasure swept over Basile. This trip was the culmination of months of brooding and worshipping from afar. Three months, to be exact. When the seatbelt warning flashed off he leaned across and said, "Would you like something to drink?" "Why not?" Her smile remained in his mind like a question mark. It was her smile that had first attracted him two years previously at the Italian Community Centre in Islington. Most Thursday nights he spent a couple of hours there, advising people on their pension and welfare rights. It was the only chance he had to get out of his musty office near Vauxhall Bridge. Pamela sat on the general committee. He barely paid her any attention till she sought out his advice one day about her mother’s pension. It was her low, husky voice that drew him. Even after he had advised her he didn’t want her to stop talking. His own feelings alarmed him. He had only just 1

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Pamela was beautiful even when she was flustered, Basile realised.

"For a moment I thought you’d changed your mind," he said with relief,

fastening his seatbelt as Pamela settled in beside him.

"My daughter had trouble getting the car started," she said, wiping her 

forehead with the back of her hand.

With her blond bob surrounding her bright, smiling green eyes, pretty

mouth emphasised by red lipstick, she didn't look like a woman in her mid-

forties, but then she never did. The thick, green,wool two-piece seemed just

right for a woman her age, being both elegant and practical. Realising he was

staring at her, Basile swung his gaze to the in-flight magazine he had been

reading.

Ten minutes later the plane took off for Leningrad. A wave of pleasure

swept over Basile. This trip was the culmination of months of brooding and

worshipping from afar. Three months, to be exact.

When the seatbelt warning flashed off he leaned across and said,

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Why not?" Her smile remained in his mind like a question mark.

It was her smile that had first attracted him two years previously at the

Italian Community Centre in Islington. Most Thursday nights he spent a

couple of hours there, advising people on their pension and welfare rights. It

was the only chance he had to get out of his musty office near Vauxhall

Bridge. Pamela sat on the general committee. He barely paid her any

attention till she sought out his advice one day about her mother’s pension. It

was her low, husky voice that drew him. Even after he had advised her he

didn’t want her to stop talking. His own feelings alarmed him. He had only just

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got over a painful break-up with a divorced woman. At fifty one he wasn’t sure

if he was capable of becoming involved again. Until now.

He had noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. After a few discreet

enquiries he had discovered that she was divorced from a lorry driver who

had left her for a younger woman, and that she had a twenty-year-old

daughter called Anna . Over the weeks he sought every opportunity to get to

know her more intimately but their conversation only ever seemed to revolve

around the activities of the Community Centre.

The chance to get to know her better came when the Centre organised

a trip to Cambridge. On the back seat of the coach she told him a good deal

about herself, most of which he already knew. She implied that there was no-

one in her life and that she was content to live alone with her daughter.

"How about you," she suddenly said. "Is there someone in your life?"

"Not at the moment," Basile said, a little taken aback by her curiosity.

He looked away and muttered, "Actually, not for a long time."

"I find that very surprising," she said.

Basile blamed loneliness for the ease with which Margaret had moved

into his life. She had started as his partner at the dinner dances held at St

Peter's church hall. A small sherry afterwards soon led to coffee at his flat.

Then she began to visit him during the day, saying she was 'just passing'.

When she started to rearrange his furniture he knew the relationship wouldn't

last. It was the little things that told you most about people, he realised.

"Your trouble is you let people walk all over you," she said, before

leaving his life forever. It didn't seem to occur to her that this was exactly

what she had done.

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He couldn't imagine Pamela trying to take over his life, but her little

spark of interest was enough to fire up pleasant fantasies in his mind. From

that point on his throat went dry whenever she approached. The more he saw

her the harder he found it to make his big move. He was a known figure at

the Centre, one false move and he would make a fool of himself. What he

needed was the right time and the right place.

The idea came to him via one of his customers, a man called Pietro

who worked for Progressive Tours. He had just returned from a trip to Russia

and his description of Red Square in the Autumn left Basile in no doubt that

he had found the perfect romantic setting. The following week he distributed

brochures around the Centre advertising an eight day trip taking in Leningrad,

Moscow, Vladimir and Suzdal.

One day he caught Pamela studying a brochure by the notice board.

He stood beside her, close enough to smell her perfume, then stuttered,

"Why don’t you... come along?"

To his amazement she put the brochure down and said, "OK then, put

my name down. As long as I’m not the only woman in the group, of course."

"I’m sure you won’t be," said Basile.

As it turned out there were two other women in the group of eleven

people: two widows in their sixties who did everything together.

As the cabin steward placed the drinks before them, Basile pointed out the

excellent shopping to be had in Moscow, and ran through a brief list of the

sights to be seen.

"As long as I can find a mink coat," said Pamela. "I promised Anna I’d

bring her one back."

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"I’m quite sure that won’t be a problem at all," said Basile, pleased to

be the fount of all knowledge about the Soviet Union - even if it was all from

books and magazines.

When he told her over lunch that it might be snowing when they

arrived she said, "How romantic."

After lunch she excused herself, settled back in her seat and closed

her eyes.

Basile was engrossed in an article about scuba diving in the Maldives

when he felt her head flop against his shoulder. Hardly daring to move, he

turned his face slightly to enjoy the brush of her hair against his cheek. In his

mind they were kicking through snow, hand in hand like contented lovers.

This image suddenly changed and he saw himself making passionate love to

her. The mere thought brought him out in a heat rash. The voice of the

steward brought him back to reality.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts. We will be

landing in Leningrad Airport in fifteen minutes."

Pamela suddenly jerked upright, glancing around as though unsure

where she was, Realising she had slept through the journey with her head on

Basile’s shoulder she lowered her eyes bashfully and said, "Excuse me."

"My pleasure," said Basile.

A biting cold wind blew across the tarmac as they made their way towards the

check-in. While they waited for the bags to come down the carousel Basile

took a look round the building. Below a huge Pepsi Cola poster was a stall

selling Cacharelle and Nina Ricci perfume and a stand advertising Marlboro

cigarettes.

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Outside, Basile picked out the tour guide, a glamorous woman called

Olga who looked as though she should be on a fashion shoot. Basile grabbed

Pamela’s heavy suitcases and carefully placed them in the hold of the tour 

bus. After rushing back for his own bag Basile ran back so that he could get

on ahead of her and make sure they sat together.

The roads had been cleared of snow which had been banked at either 

side of the pavement. Small red flags were dotted here and there.

Throughout the two hour journey to the hotel Olga explained in perfect

English how Russia was undergoing deep political changes, especially since

the appointment of Gorbachev, then went on to outline useful hints for 

travelling in the Soviet Union.

At the Moskva hotel the two old widows paired off and took double

rooms. Unfortunately for Basile, Pamela's room was on a different floor to his.

With any luck, he thought, before long she’d be spending more time in his

room, on his bed.

"I expected a little bit more than this," Pamela said, placing her knife and fork

together and leaving most of her soup, ham, eggs and cheese untouched.

"One moment." Basile signalled to the waiter.

After making a few gestures of helplessness, the waiter scribbled down

a few addresses on a slip of paper. Basile knew that you needed to make

contact with the locals to find out where the best places were. He returned to

the table with the triumphant smile of someone in the know. "Tomorrow we’ll

explore the real restaurants."

Afterwards Pamela returned to her room to write postcards, promising

to return in time for the Russian folk band. Basile hung around the bar,

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chatting to three men from their group, most of them in their late forties and

all of whom he knew from the Community Centre. Giuseppe, a bachelor in his

late fifties, was an assistant chef at a hotel. He was arguing with a tall,

handsome man called Raul, a rep for a wine importer, about the importance

of food over service. The third man was a banqueting waiter called Luigi. He

had recently divorced from his wife after twenty years.

As the evening wore on Basile found himself nodding absently,

glancing at his watch and smoking more and more of Luigi’s cigarettes.

Finally, Luigi and Giuseppe announced that they were going out on the town.

As they went to move off, Luigi said, "Why don’t you come with us?"

Basile thanked them but said he was waiting for someone.

After half an hour the man called Raul finished his drink and said, "I’m

off. See you tomorrow."

By eleven Basile began to suspect that Pamela wouldn’t be joining him

after all. In the time he’d waited he’d drunk half a bottle of vodka and smoked

the best part of a packet of cigarettes. He stubbed out the last one and

slipped quietly back to his room.

He tried to watch TV but found he couldn’t concentrate. He tried to

read a book but the words yielded up no meaning. It had, after all, been a

tiring day for everyone, he told himself as he lay on the bed. It had obviously

caught up with her, that was all.

Next morning Basile awoke early with the taste of vodka in the back of his

throat. After a quick shower and a severe session with the toothbrush he

headed for the restaurant. The waiters were still rubbing their eyes when he

entered. Basile took a table in the deserted room and contemplated the day

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ahead. Over the next hour the restaurant began to fill up. Pamela hurried in

five minutes before closing time and joined him at the table.

"Sorry about last night," she said. "After I’d written my postcards I

called my daughter and then I just drifted off."

"No problem," said Basile, getting up. "Take your time. I’ll hold the

bus."

Olga the tour guide was explaining the schedule for the day ahead. The first

stop was the Peter and Paul Fortress. Pamela stuck close by his side as they

wandered past the ancient tombs of the Russian kings and princesses. Luigi

tried to catch his eye but Basile pretended not to have seen him. As the rest

of the group followed Olga, Basile slowed his pace in the hope of losing the

others.

"I’m so glad I came here," said Pamela.

"Me too," said Basile. "But believe me the best is yet to come."

"Oh yes?"

Basile planned to take Pamela to St Isaac’s Cathedral, but after a

heavy lunch at a nearby Georgian restaurant neither were in the mood for 

sightseeing.

"For the lady," said the waiter, placing before her a plate of ice cream.

Basile carefully settled the bill in sterling.

Afterwards they made their way back along Nevesky Prospekt. Though

most of the shops were closed, queues had already formed in the doorways.

Pamela said it reminded her of Oxford Street on Saturday. They turned into

the market on Ostrovsky Square. Paintings and highly-coloured woodcraft

ornaments were on display, including the famous Matryoshka dolls. Pamela

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picked up two and went to pay. The stall holder wrapped them up and said,

"Thirty dollars, or five hundred roubles." Then, noticing her confusion, he

added, "Or twenty pounds?"

She turned to Basile. "Why is it more expensive if you pay in roubles?"

"Inflation, madam," said the stall holder with a smile.

Though she appeared to accept the explanation, Basile couldn’t help

feeling he had failed her by not explaining such vagaries.

"Ah well, it’s only money," she said as they moved through the crowds.

On the square itself they became the focus of attention of groups of 

teenagers keen to sell them anything from watches to caviar, badges to

authentic Russian hats. Caught up in the excitement Pamela bought a hat,

two small pots of caviar and two Paketa watches. Her pleasure at clinching

the deal gave Basile a warm glow. After a further turn around the square they

took a taxi back to the hotel.

So far so good, Basile thought to himself as he lay down in his room

for an afternoon nap. He had promised to take her to the Philharmonic

Concert Hall that evening, followed by the best meal she’d ever had. Tonight,

he thought as he drifted off, just might be the night.

Basile hardly listened to the music in the cavernous hall. All the time he had

lived in London he’d never been near a classical concert. Tonight it was

enough to be sitting beside Pamela. He liked to think she felt the same way,

that the camel coat she was wearing, the black woollen dress, the patent

leather pumps, the expensive perfume, were all for his benefit. In the interval

they drank Russian champagne and though Basile was not familiar with

Tchaikovsky’s violin concertos he tried to sound appreciative. When they

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returned to their seats the hiss of nylon as Pamela crossed her legs brought a

lump to his throat.

Then suddenly the concert was over and they were making their way

out of the hall. He helped her on with her coat, smoothing it down over her 

shoulders. Then they stepped out into the cool Russian night, her arm linked

with his.

"Did you enjoy it?" he asked her.

"To tell you the truth, classical music isn’t really my cup of tea but, yes,

I enjoyed it."

Afloat on a sea of tiny pleasures, Basile flagged down a cab and asked

to be taken to a good restaurant.

"I know just the place," said the driver, putting the car into gear.

They were dropped further down Nevesky Prospekt. At first the bank of 

run-down grey buildings didn’t look too promising. Basile led Pamela towards

two tall uniformed doormen standing before a heavy wooden door.

"We were looking for the restaurant," said Basile. For a moment he

was worried that the taxi driver had dropped them at the wrong place.

"This way please," said the taller of the two men.

A man in a dark green jacket checked in their coats, then led them up

a wide staircase. At the top they followed him through a doorway and found

themselves in the middle of a huge room with a dancing area surrounded by

about thirty tables, most of which had been taken. The man in the green

 jacket gestured to a waiter who led them to a quiet table. So far Pamela had

said nothing but he could tell from her eyes that she was impressed.

After the waiter had taken their order a six piece band started up a

medley of disco songs and a group of female dancers took to the floor in

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carefully choreographed moves clearly designed to be ‘sexy’. When they

twirled around Basile saw that they were wearing very little below. For a

moment he was not sure how to respond.

"They’re very good, don’t you think?" said Pamela.

"Yes, I suppose they are."

Basile glanced at the menu, then sneaked a look at the dancers as

they twirled again.

"This is so nice," she said, elegantly sipping her wine.

Basile was about to agree when a noise at the entrance drew his

attention. A group of three men were having a word with the waiter. Basile

recognised them as the man called Luigi and his friends Giuseppe and Raul.

He quickly turned back to Pamela.

"Is something wrong?" she said.

Basile watched Luigi slip the folded notes into the waiter’s top pocket.

By this time there was not a single free table in the restaurant. Basile kept his

head down and nervously played with his cutlery. The last thing he wanted

was three noisy strangers disrupting his perfect evening.

"Surprise, surprise," said Luigi, clapping his hand roughly on Basile’s

back. "You like this kind of show, do you?"

"Well actually - " Basile began.

"You don’t mind if we join you, do you?" said Giuseppe, dragging a

chair from the table.

"I don’t mind," said Pamela.

Before Basile could say anything more Luigi helped himself to wine

and signalled to the waiter. "And could you bring us four bottles of 

champagne and a bottle of vodka, please?"

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The waiter nodded, then pulled out the remaining chairs and ushered

the other two around the table.

"And then we went to the Hermitage Art Museum," Raul was saying to

Pamela. "In many ways the architecture calls to mind Venice, don’t you

think?"

"I suppose it does," said Pamela. "I’d never really thought of it like that

before."

She took out a cigarette. Raul leaned across and flipped open his

lighter. "Allow me."

"Tell him what happened the other night," Luigi said to Giuseppe.

Basile prayed that he wouldn’t.

"One the way to Novesky Prospekt we stopped off in the city centre.

These two beautiful women came towards us. They asked us if we wanted to

change money or maybe buy some Caviar. We took a taxi to their place. We

bought a couple of watches, maybe we spent fifty pounds each, who knows?

Then they said to us if we wanted to spend the night, another twenty. We

couldn’t believe it, these two beautiful women, twenty years old. We had a

little drink, a bit of a dance." He paused, savouring the thought, and took a sip

of his wine. “We didn't even have to think about it. A few more drinks then -

off to their rooms."

"Get to the point," said Luigi.

"In the room the woman says to me, "Do you like Leningrad?" "Lovely

city," I said. "Lovely girls too." And then."

"Tell them," said Luigi.

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Giuseppe sighed and lowered his head. "We woke up next morning to

find our wallets had been stolen."

"Terrible," said Pamela. "Did they take much?"

Giuseppe spelled it out very slowly, lowering his head in despair. "Two

hundred dollars."

"Shocking," said Pamela.

"Just as well it was counterfeit," said Luigi. "We left the real money

back in our rooms."

Pamela exchanged a look with Basile, then burst out laughing. By this

time the resident dancers had left the floor open to the diners. before Basile

could resume his conversation with Pamela, Raul turned to her and said,

"Would you like to dance?"

She turned back briefly before Raul led her away. "I won’t be long."

Basile was so upset at this unforeseen intrusion that he hardly touched

his food, though he drank the wine like water. Over his glass he watched

Pamela and Raul twirling to the strains of Strangers in the Night. Luigi and

Giuseppe then took over, leaving him feeling like a spectator at someone

else’s event. Overcome with wine and irritation he got up and headed for the

toilet.

He threw cold water on his face, studied his unhappy reflection in the

mirror and returned to the restaurant.

"Basile," said Pamela when she returned to the table. "Why haven’t we

been to the Hermitage?"

Basile smiled nervously. "I had that planned for tomorrow actually."

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When the night was finally over they flagged down two taxis. Basile

was about to get in beside Pamela when Raul pushed in ahead. She looked

back at Basile from the back seat and shrugged.

Later, as they got into the lift, Pamela said, “Did you have a nice

evening?"

"Fine," he said. "You?"

"Wonderful," she said. "It’s a pity it’s our last day in Leningrad

tomorrow."

As Pamela got out Basile said, "Don’t forget about our trip to the

Hermitage."

"How could I?" she said, as they reached an angle that led to two

corridors. Pamela glanced in the direction of his room and said, "Ah well."

Basile met her gaze and stared until sheer nervousness forced him to

look away. Then, hating himself as he spoke the words, he said, "Goodnight.

See you in the morning," and moved off quickly.

As Basile unlocked the door of his room he was sure he could hear 

someone whistling Strangers in the Night.

The others had left for a trip to the cruiser Aurora by the time Basile came

down to meet Pamela. This time, he decided, there would be no distractions.

The taxi dropped them off before the Winter Palace. Basile helped

Pamela from the back seat, carefully gauging her reaction as the front of the

magnificent building came into view. Nearby, strolling by the river bank, was a

young couple, hand in hand, lost to everything except themselves. Gazing at

the view across the Neva, Pamela shivered in the chill wind. In that moment -

Pamela a beautiful figure in a perfect setting - he wanted to take her in his

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arms and hold her close but something told him the time was not right just

yet.

He took her arm and led her to the entrance of the museum. For the

next two hours they wandered around the exhibits. Basile found he could

concentrate on nothing but her. When they finally made their way to the exit

he decided to seize the moment. He stepped forward, reached out and took

her hand.

She smiled and said, "Thanks for bringing me here."

"My pleasure," he said. "I’m glad you enjoyed it."

"It was just as Raul described it."

Basile ignored her last remark. "Shall we take a walk or go back to the

hotel?"

"I suppose I should pack my bags," she said.

Before flagging down a cab, Basile took a few snaps of Pamela

standing before the Winter Palace.

How did you know when to make a move with a woman you really

cared about? Basile asked himself as he packed his suitcase later that

afternoon. You wait for the signal, he decided.

Just then the phone rang. Basile snapped up straight on the bed and

grabbed it. It was Pamela, her voice sounding like that of a little girl. "I was

wondering, when you’ve finished packing could you help me carry my bags

downstairs?"

"Certainly," said Basile.

Night was just beginning to settle over the city as they all lugged their bags

from the bus to the station platform. Basile waited till the crowd had died

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down then reached into the hold. It was empty. He went across to the tour 

guide and tried to explain. She said something to the driver, then turned back

to Basile.

"He said he picked up all the luggage by the door in the foyer. Are you

sure you left your bags in the right place?"

Basile cast his mind back. Having seen the untidy pile of bags Basile

had thought to keep his and Pamela’s bags separate. He also didn’t like the

idea of Raul’s bags jostling with hers and providing him with the opportunity to

chat to her when they were unloaded at Moscow.

"As I’m sure you’re aware," the tour guide said. "There’s more than

one tour. However, if you’re certain you’ve left your bags behind you’ve got

over an hour before the train leaves."

The driver wasn’t too happy about returning to the hotel, until Basile

handed over five pounds. Back at the hotel he found Pamela’s suitcases, but

not his own. The driver had a heated discussion with the doorman. As far as

Basile could make out, his bags had been loaded on to another bus by

mistake. Basile made arrangements for them to be sent on to Moscow as

soon as they were located. By the time the bus arrived at the station the train

was on the point of leaving. Pamela was delighted. Basile tried to smile about

the fact that the only clothes he now had were the ones he was standing up

in.

The train was packed with tourists and all the seats were taken. Raul

had already settled into the bunk across the aisle from Pamela. Basile had to

make do with a hard seat on the corridor by the toilet. After an hour or so he

sneaked past the compartment - ostensibly to see whether Pamela needed

anything from the buffet. The catering assistant was already coming out of 

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the compartment as Basile approached. Through a crack in the door Basile

watched Pamela daintily sipping coffee as she chatted with Raul and his

friends.

Basile spent most of the night wandering up and down the narrow

corridor, listening to the sound of laughter drifting from the apartment. Finally,

unable to keep his eyes open, he made himself as comfortable on the bench

outside the toilet and drifted off into a light sleep.

He awoke early next morning as the train was pulling into Moscow. The trees

in the woods at either side of the track were topped with snow. Basile

buttoned up his jacket against the cold and went in search of the buffet van.

The assistant was still rubbing his eyes, but he invited Basile to have a coffee

and biscuits. Afterwards Basile made his way back along the corridor with a

pot of coffee for Pamela. He knocked gently on the door and entered.

"What a nice thought," she said, sitting up on the bunk. Her simple

words gave Basile a warm glow. Then she turned to Luigi and said, "Would

you like some, Luigi?"

"Just what I need," he said, helping himself.

"Apparently we’ll be in Moscow in about an hour," said Basile, eyeing

Raul suspiciously as he reached for Pamela’s bags. "Better get ready."

On the platform Basile loaded the bags on to a trolley and stuck close

by the side of the porter as though his life depended on it. Their new tour 

guide, Tanya, was waving a placard on the forecourt. "Anyone for 

Progressive Tours?"

When everyone had gathered around Tanya the coach pulled up and

the luggage was loaded into the hold. Since he had no luggage Basile hung

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about until Pamela stepped on to the bus, then he quickly nipped on behind

her. As he settled in beside her she said, "I was sorry to hear about your 

luggage."

"It’s not important," he said. "There was nothing valuable in the bags,

apart from the camera."

The smell of her perfume, the same one she’d worn on the plane,

comforted and reassured him.

As the bus pulled away the new tour guide went in her spiel about how

Moscow had changed and pointed out sites of historical interest. She ended

with, "As some of you will know, today we celebrate the anniversary of the

Revolution. Those of you interested in the parade might like to leave your 

bags in your rooms and come downstairs. At nine thirty a bus will arrive to

collect you."

Basile was delighted. He turned to Pamela and described in great

detail what was in store.

The Central Tourist House was bigger than the one they had stayed at

in Leningrad. The change in the atmosphere as the celebrations drew nearer 

affected everyone who worked at the hotel. Even the receptionist smiled, a

reaction they were not accustomed to seeing in Russia till then.

After a quick breakfast everyone gathered in the lobby where Tanya

was waiting. A short bus ride later they were in a street off Red Square. The

sight of everyone dressed up in their best clothes made Basile feel grubby,

though Luigi had let him use his razor and lent him a red scarf.

"If you look to the right," Tanya announed over the tannoy, "you will

see the basilica, famous the world over. Coming up ahead is the mausoleum

were Lenin’s body is preserved."

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Red Square was surrounded by red flags and huge posters of Marx

and Lenin. The locals, thousands of them, were done up in fur from head to

toe. A hush swept over the crowd as the celebrations began.

First there was a platoon of marching soldiers. This was followed by

tanks and trailers carrying huge missiles. Martial music accompanied the

spectacle. It ended with a display of representatives from all corners of the

republic carrying posters and banners. Basile turned to Pamela. He felt

personally responsible for the warm glow in her cheeks. When she said, "It

was a good idea to organise this trip. I must say I’ve thoroughly enjoyed

myself," he knew his moment had come.

After glancing around to make sure no-one from their group was

around, he put his arm around Pamela’s shoulder and gently pulled her 

closer. It was now or never.

"Pamela, if I don’t tell you now, I never will," he began. "Here, in this

beautiful place, in this beautiful city, I have to tell you that I love you."

As he went to kiss her, she froze in his embrace then gently removed

his arms. "Basile, I don’t understand."

"But you must know how I feel about you."

She turned away briefly and muttered, "Oh God." Then she said, "I

never thought of you as anything other than a friend."

"A friend?" He found it difficult to get the words out. A friend?

She swung her gaze back towards him. "I’m sorry if I gave you the

wrong impression."

He suddenly felt very foolish. "It’s all right."

"That wasn’t the reason why you invited me on this trip, was it?"

The words stuck in his throat. "Amongst other things."

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"But I can’t think of anything I’ve said or done which could have made

you think I saw you as anything other than, well, a friend. If I did, I’m sorry."

She glanced across at Raul who was chatting with Tanya. Basile and

Pamela wandered back to the coach in silence.

As the coach pulled away, Tanya took up the microphone and

explained that there were two more events in store for that evening: the

Moscow State Circus and the Bolshoi Ballet. From the murmurs of the group

it appeared that most of them wanted to go to the circus.

"Shall we go too?" said Basile.

She smiled. "It’s a long time since I went to a circus. Why not?"

Basile had decided it was better to have Pamela as a friend than not at

all. Any anyway, friendships had been known to blossom into romance, hadn’t

they?

The bus was due to depart from the hotel at seven. Basile was in the bath

when the phone rang. Luigi answered it and called, "It’s for you."

Basile got out quickly and pulled on his bathrobe. It was Pamela. She

told him she was tired and no longer felt up to going to the circus. Basile

masked his disappointment and told her to take care of herself and have an

early night.

At quarter to seven they were all aboard the bus. Giuseppe glanced at

his watch. "Your friend running late?"

"She’s not coming," said Basile. "She doesn’t feel too well."

"Strange," said Giuseppe. "I’m sure I saw her talking to Raul and

Tanya a couple of hours ago."

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The familiar sinking feeling returned. Before Basile could check himself 

he heard himself saying, "I’ve forgotten my wallet. I’ll meet up with you later."

He paced up and down the lobby, keeping a close eye on the

passengers spilling out of the four lifts. As the bell chimed once more he took

a good look at the latest crowd hurrying out towards the bus. Neither Raul nor 

Pamela were among them. Basile lit a fresh cigarette from the stub of the old

one and puffed on it nervously. In twenty minutes he’d smoked half a packet.

He watched the lights flash as the lift came down yet again.

They looked like two movie stars on their way out for the evening.

Pamela, as radiant as ever, was wearing a white mink with a matching hat.

Raul was wearing a fawn cashmere overcoat. Basile ducked behind a column

as they passed, Pamela leaving a trail of perfume in her wake. He watched

through the swing doors as Raul flagged down a taxi. As it pulled away Basile

ran out into the chill night and flagged down the next one.

"Just follow that car," he told the driver, proffering a ten pound note. Up

till then he had thought that only characters in films said such things. He

wondered if the driver thought the same. Where films were concerned,

however, the actors knew how the script ended. It suddenly occurred to

Basile that he hadn’t a clue what would happen next.

Eventually they stopped outside a grand building flanked by columns.

"Where are we?" Basile asked the driver.

"The Bolshoi," said the driver curtly.

As soon as Raul and Pamela were inside Basile dashed to the box

office. The woman behind the counter shook her head and told him the show

was sold out. Seeing a tout on the pavement outside, Basile pushed through

the swing doors, paid the tout ten pounds above the normal price and dashed

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back inside the foyer. It was then that he asked himself why exactly he was

following Raul and Pamela. It occurred to him that his motive was to take the

pain and sense of betrayal he felt to its logical conclusion. Then that would be

an end of the matter.

He found himself high up on a balcony, far away from the stage. He

ran his eye along the stalls below and soon picked out Raul and Pamela.

Before him the ballet story unfolded, but the carefully choreographed

movement meant nothing to him. Where others were enchanted he saw only

actions without words, the hint of a form beneath the chaos. Though he

applauded along with everyone else he knew in that moment that it would be

always like this, that in his own life he would never be more than an

uncomprehending spectator, destined always to look on from afar.

"Your trouble is you let people walk all over you," Margaret had said.

But it was worse than that. He never willingly allowed anything to

happen. Things happened while he was too busy thinking about whether they

would happen. By which time it was usually too late.

When the interval came he watched Raul and Pamela at the bar. Two

people who were made for each other. Again Basile hesitated and wondered.

Then he decided it was time to stop wondering. He moved quickly and

purposefully towards the door marked EXIT.

END